The Purpose of Words
by JPLE
Summary: What is the point of living without love? What is the point of loving without your loved one? JPLE.


**A/N: **

This story was inspired by Queen Nightingale, a ridiculously good writer and a lovely person.

In short - she gave me the words 'Flying Carpet' and 'Helicopter' and challenged me to create an LJ story out of them.  
>Now, I realise that I have kind of cheated; I actually used a song about flying carpets to inspire me, and helicopter is mentioned only briefly. But it was from the song 'Magic Carpet Ride' that I drew this story.<p>

Enjoy.

* * *

><p>Last night I held Aladdin's lamp<br>And so I wished that I could stay  
>Before the thing could answer me<br>Well, someone came and took the lamp away

- Steppenwolf.

* * *

><p>The strongest, most powerful things in life don't need words.<p>

Lily Evans knew this as she stood stock still in fright, pressed up against the smooth, sandpapered mahogany chest of drawers in her son's room. As milliseconds ticked by she glanced frantically at her surroundings, noting nothing but the best place in which to put her son. Like a protective lioness, the adrenaline running inside her spurred on her most basic survival instincts; _fight, defend, protect._

The room at the top left hand of the stairs quivered as the panic set inside her mind, brought on by the rumbling of the floor below. There were no words she could make out clearly; her mind is numbed by the rush of animalistic instincts being fought off by her maternal ones. _Protect Harry_ ran rampant over anything else, going directly against the notion of self preservation.

There might have been a note of mirthless, high pitched laughter as the perpetrator invaded the house, stalking purposefully towards the small room with mahogany fittings, but Lily Evans did not hear it. There might have been mocking words or snide comments given by the cloaked figure as he stepped, in a most self assured manner towards the only other living creature in the story below. Harry might have squirmed and called 'mamma' in her direction; some kind of vie for her attention, but she did not recognise it.

She did recognise the flash of green light; soundless and wordless. She noticed the dull thud of a lifeless body slamming to the ground, and the short, quickening steps which glided over it carelessly.

Almost everything that mattered was gone in a matter of seconds; wordlessly. Everything that could possibly have still mattered lay in her arms, unable to speak many words at all.

Words, Lily Evans realised at that moment, meant very little.

It was as if some kind of gravitational force tugged hard at her heart, as if someone had looped around it with a lasso and tried to tear it from her body. It was more than the dull aches of disappointment or the helpless feeling of unrequited love; it was as if her body fought against her, weakening her with every single force it had.

Her chest burned like a fire rampaging through her insides, being inhaled down her trachea and pumped around her body, spreading the pain. Someone stabbed her, multiple times, right at her chest, but she just didn't die, _damn it_ she just didn't die. She felt as if she should have been bleeding out; rivers of blood dripping down her front and arms and legs and every single pore in her body seeping with the red substance, obliterating her until she was simply that pool upon the carpet.

She wanted to leave; she wanted to get as far away from that small, mahogany fitted room as she could. She wanted to jump out of the nearest window, run straight into Voldemort's wand because she was sick of waiting; she _fucking_ wanted to die.

Because what else in the world was worth living for? What is living and loving without your loved one?

James, beautiful and trusting and loving James, was lying lifeless below the floor on which she stood. James, who she had sworn she hated and _despised_ for years, was gone, dead, and vacant; she absolutely hated herself in that instant for wasting so much precious time.

James, who almost seemed as if he was standing in front of her in the room, was smiling mischievously at her from the corner of the transfiguration classroom. He was lounging on side of the desk with Sirius slyly whispering over his shoulder into his ear, Remus flicking his eyes upwards reproachfully. He was following her from potions to charms, giving her a list of reasons why going out with him would enhance her life in so many different ways. He was laughing with her as they stood in the corner of one of Slughorn's Christmas parties, watching Waldon McNair struggle to avoid the advances of Clarissa Parkinson, who _just so happened_ to have very bad breath that night. He was grinning mysteriously at her on Christmas morning of 1976, when she unwrapped a necklace with a fine, silver stag pendent with no card or note attached. He was staring, mouth agape as she cast her first patronus in Defence against the Dark Arts, probably wondering whether the necklace had some kind of hidden charm.

James, who although admitting going on a date with her was the most amazing thing that had ever happened in his life, adamantly refused to go anywhere near her if she made him step inside of Madame Puddifoots. James, with whom she had not-so-secretly agreed with on this fact. He was kissing her awkwardly and uncertainly for the first time in the snow outside Honeydukes. He was kissing her more passionately in the Head Boy and Girl's common room. He was kissing her softly and gently, wrapping his arms around her securely as she cried and cried about her parents and the car crash. He was kissing her reservedly at their wedding in front of a hundred guests; seventy or so of them that she wished they didn't have to invite. He was kissing her a lot more convincingly that night.

James, who had childishly yelled with excitement when she finally said yes to going out with him. James, who did the very same yell when she told him that, despite his ego _still _being out of control, she would marry him. James, who picked her up and swung her around like a rag doll when he found out that she was pregnant.

James, who had been the very _best_ father to date.

His smile, his laugh, his kisses, his love.

Dead.

She forced her eyes to trail onto Harry's face, partially covered by the mop of untidy hair that was flung across his forehead, and all she could see was James. She searched and searched; raking her fearful eyes over the boy's face but couldn't find anything that didn't resemble her. Even the brilliant green eyes just made her think of James' playful rhymes.

_Green eyes, they're mine..._

The strike of inspiration took her, with the words that rung through her head. Words could mean something, even for a dying woman with little left to live for.

Placing Harry in his cot she stood protectively over him, conjuring in her mind's eye James' face and wishing that she had some of his bravado, some of his courage as her heart thudded like the blades on a helicopter.

In some way, words with meaning were powerful she thought. Words can push people together and rip them apart. Make a person seem insufferably annoying, but lovable all the same. Words can make the difference between a girlfriend and a fiancé, a fiancé and a wife. A wife and a mother even, to some extent.

So as the hooded figure glided fully into the room, she opened her mouth and begun to beg.


End file.
